


Sit and Wish I Was --

by stereomer



Category: Gym Class Heroes, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-20
Updated: 2012-03-20
Packaged: 2017-11-02 06:10:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereomer/pseuds/stereomer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>B-boy AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sit and Wish I Was --

Tonight, it’s taking place at a lot of townhouses that was abandoned about halfway through the building process once the weather just got too damn hot. Clear plastic tarps are hanging everywhere, walls still standing as bare bones; a leftover construction lamp is plugged into a portable generator, throwing out a wide berth of light that fades away at the edges of the room but highlights the way everyone’s packed in together, all shifting motion and white smears of teeth as they talk and laugh and whoop in the heat. 

This one guy has been killing it all night. He’s still standing up at the front – a tiny kid, but Travis just thinks of him as ‘kid’ because his size. His face is sharp, arms and hands covered in tattoos. Definitely not a kid in the literal sense. 

Travis hops into the empty circle of space, taking the mic that Matt hands to him, and says, “What’s up, kid?”

“Sup.” The kid smiles easily enough. He switches his mic over to his left hand and offers his right. 

Travis takes it. They shake and release. Neither of them blink.

“All right, last round,” Disashi yells, hands cupped around his mouth in the shape of a teardrop. “Travie’s the new guy around here, so he gets first honors.” 

At Disashi’s questioning look, Travis nods silently, and Disashi passes along the motion to Eric, who starts spinning right away. It’s a simple beat with a syncopated bass hit somewhere in the middle to keep it interesting; Travis just lets it flow for a while, moving his shoulders to it, one-two-one-two, one-two-three-four. He accidentally touches the top of his head a few times, but there’s nothing there anymore to pull at – his fucking hair, man, probably being batted around by dumpster cats now, what’d he have to go and cut it for? – and he catches the kid smiling each time it happens, as if he can guess what’s going on.

Two more measures, and then Travis brings the mic up to his mouth, breathing in the smell of metal and old spit drying between the crosshairs, and starts it. 

 

It’s only at the after-party in Matt’s basement that he finds out the kid’s name is Frank. Real name and stage name both. 

“I like to be unassuming.” Frank shrugs, shoulders twitching up and down against the wall. “Hey, so, you do know that that was the first battle I’ve ever lost, right?”

“What, you want a rematch?” Travis prods.

Frank has hooded eyes and a sleepy smile. It’s a good look for him. “Give me some time to recuperate and maybe.”

“Yeah, brush up on your dictionary skills and maybe then I won’t school you so bad next time.” 

“Oh-ho,” Frank hoots. 

Travis silently says, I can’t help it, holding his palms up and tilting his head a little. He gets jostled out of the position and lurches forward when someone pushes past him, much harder than necessary. Half of him wants to call something out, to go tap the guy on the shoulder and tell him to take it easy, but he glances at Frank, who’s also staring after the guy, and decides, nah. He’d rather stay put. 

“Anyway,” he says, and Frank turns back to him immediately. “That just means you haven’t been around enough, man.” Travis pauses, then says what could go unspoken: “You haven’t, have you? I would’ve seen you.”

Frank nods and shakes his head right after, holding the brim of his hat and lifting it up and down a few times before letting it settle lightly over his forehead, higher than before. “Yeah, nope. Used to spend most of my time breaking, actually.”

Travis raises his eyebrows. “No shit? What type?”

Now that Frank brought it up, Travis can see it – kid’s got chicken legs but a solid upper body, plenty good enough to support pikes and chair freezes. He imagines little islands of scraped skin on Frank’s elbows and knees, a constant bruise where his spine bends through the back of his neck. Maybe even a thinning spot near the crown of his head, a spot of hair made softer than normal from constant spinning contact with floors. 

“Flexible movement,” Frank answers, then does this weird glide thing that has him moving along the wall and sloshing a bit of his beer all over Matt’s ugly olive-green carpeting. “What what what,” he says, doing it all in reverse, and it’s the goofy laugh that follows – the way Frank hops a few steps on one foot as he overbalances, and the way Travis doesn’t really have to grab his elbow but does so anyway – it’s all that, and then some. 

“What?” Frank asks, looking curious at what Travis apparently has said out loud, and also at the fact that Travis still has his fingers spidered around Frank’s elbow. 

“All that, and then some,” Travis repeats. He finally lets go, flexing his hand a little before reaching into his shirt pocket and digging out a joint. 

“Short, dark, and handsome?” Frank finishes as Travis is just beginning to take a hit. It dissolves to nothing as Travis blubbers out a few coughs, trying to decide whether to breathe or laugh, but his body keeps wanting to do both. 

“Bust a nut inside your eye, to show you where I come from,” he finally recites in a creaky voice. “Nice catch.” He manages to take another hit while Frank giggles and nods in approval, accepting the joint when Travis offers it up, and soon they’re surrounded by a sticky-sweet cloud, Frank’s beer sitting forgotten on top of a bunch of slipmats and his hand transferring condensation onto Travis’s fingertips with every pass. 

When all that’s left is a tiny nub, barely enough to qualify as a roach, Frank pushes his index finger against Travis’s chest. “You tricked me. That was creeper weed,” he accuses. 

“The best weed always is,” Travis declares, opening his eyes – but he can’t even remember shutting them in the first place. It’s hot as fuck in the basement. They’re just stewing in it, cheeks glistening with sweat, shirts sticking to skin. He’s leaning against the wall with one shoulder and Frank is turned toward him, mouth pulled up into a lopsided smile. “Don’t you know anything, kid?” Travis adds. 

“Want me to say it? You want me to say it, don’t you,” Frank laughs. “Fine, here: Fuck you, I’m not a kid.”

“Yeah, see. All I wanted was a reaction.” Travis flicks the brim of Frank’s hat, pushing it up even more and revealing the dark waves of hair that hug his forehead. 

Frank laughs again. “Man. I will stomp you so hard next time. It’s gonna be epic.”

“Kid talks big,” says Travis. He straightens up automatically and touches his chin to his shoulder when someone taps him on the back.

“Yo,” greets Eric. Travis echoes the greeting, then offers a hand. Eric takes it, holds it like an indefinite high-five handshake thing. The tip of his nose is pink. “You ready?”

“Yeah. Yup.” Travis turns back to Frank, shifting his attention without letting go of Eric’s hand. “Hey, I gotta – wait, who’d you roll with?” 

“This dude,” Frank answers simply. Travis waits until Frank takes the hint and continues. “A friend of mine, he does street art. He did that wall down by that bougie flower shop.” Frank shrugs and pushes himself off the wall. “You headed out?”

“Looks like.” Travis does the same, shaking his limbs back into motion. His whole body feels waterlogged, throat still kind of raw from spitting into the mic. When Eric slides his hand away and says something about going to get Disashi, Travis lets go distractedly. “Hit it,” he orders Frank, holding out a fist and turning it from side to side when his knuckles meet Frank’s. Ink touching ink. “Makin’ some alphabet soup. Mashing letters and letters.”

“This is the guy that won the freestyle battle tonight? Jesus.” Frank shakes his head in mock disappointment, managing to keep a straight face even when Travis pump-fakes a little and says, “Yeah, run scared.”

“Shaking in my fucking shoes, McCoy.”

Eric comes back just then, along with Disashi, and after quick introductions between them and Frank, Travis only has time to throw up a lazy peace sign while taking slow steps backward. “I’ll see you,” he calls. He leaves out the question mark. 

Frank tugs his hat back down, hiding most of his face in the blot of a shadow, but Travis can still see him smiling. He hears him say, “Yeah, you will,” and then Eric is pushing him out the door, shoes scraping against concrete as Travis stumbles a little. 

“And what are you so smiley about?” Disashi slings an arm around Travis’s shoulder as they walk up the steps. The heat presses in all around them, making him feel the effort of each breath, making him feel even more high. He feels good, though. 

“Nothing.” Travis smiles at him. He says, “So hey, I won tonight.”


End file.
